116 Minutes in the Studio with Luar

“Don’t worry, baby, your dad used to wear them in the ’70s,” says Raul Lopez, helping a bashful young male model named Lamine into a pair of shiny pointed mule boots. Lamine had arrived at Lopez’s temporary studio at the WSA building in the Financial District looking more like a cool downtown kid than a model, holding a skateboard. In minutes, he had transformed into someone older, more mysterious, almost extraterrestrial in a pair of skin-tight black trousers and a voluminous, cocoonlike black jacket with exaggerated shoulders. As stylist Kyle Luu fits Lamine into the jacket, adjusts the shoulders, and plays with the zippered straps that adorn the front, Lopez takes three steps backward. For a moment, he’s quiet, watching one of his latest designs come to life on Lamine’s tall, thin frame as “Piece of Me” plays in the background. “Can we fix these pads?” Ropez asks. “It’s like collapsing, I think we need a longer … you know what I’m saying, Kyle?” Luu knows exactly.

With only two days before his next runway show, Lopez’s studio is deceptively calm as nine staffers busy themselves with preparations. The fittings, where runway looks are assigned to models and given their final alterations, are about halfway finished. Models come and go, and any tweaks needed are ushered to the main studio downstairs, where another team is furiously cinching waists, puffing up sleeves, and lining scarves with fringe. Nearby, one assistant is folding dollar bills into tulips to build a bouquet of money flowers that will be tucked into the back of one of the model’s head coverings. Today is Sunday, and models are scheduled to drop by from 10:30 a.m. to 8:30 p.m. (One will be a surprise guest in the show’s lineup: the rapper Offset.) Meanwhile, a couple of models sit outside in the hallway, waiting for casting director Rachel Chandler’s approval.

Lopez stands in the middle of the studio, wearing black bike shorts, a black STELUAR hoodie from his collaboration with Stella Artois last year, and a diamond-and-crystal-covered gold watch gifted to him by JBW, the partner of an upcoming collaboration. He also wore comfy white On sneakers he rarely wears, as is underscored by how much people comment on them throughout the afternoon. “I’m not a sneaker girl,” he says later when someone asks about the shoes and he gives his approval. “She’s On-ing.” (On the day of the show, he’ll take his bow in white Nikes, though.)

To the right of Lopez are three racks, one marked “ALTERATIONS” and two marked “CONFIRMED,” with clothing assigned to different models who have already come and gone. Including a look for Julez Smith, son of Solange Knowles and a friend of the brand who made his runway debut for Luar last season in front of his aunt Beyoncé. Beyoncé rarely goes to fashion shows, and her appearance caused a bit of mayhem. But it — and the extra attention— came at the right time. It was one of Lopez’s strongest collections since he started his reverse-namesake label, Luar, in 2011. His brand, known for its strong, stylized tailoring and playful accessories, has matured in recent years. His popular handbags, with their signature oversize handles, helped him win the award for accessories designer of the year in 2022. Now his runway show is one of the most anticipated each season, and this year, his show on Tuesday night outside Rockefeller Center was the big finale of New York Fashion Week. Madonna and Ice Spice sat in the front row as electronic music blasted from a nearby Honda, its trunk stacked high with speakers — Dominican style.

But two days earlier, Lopez seems relaxed in his studio, frequently breaking into a little dance or singing along to the soundtrack of “Gimme More” and “4 in the Morning.” The tensest conversations happen without him, as two of his designers, Sabrina Arroyave and Jehan Vazifdar, huddle close, whispering about some issue with fittings. And he’s careful to stay focused, even as friends drop by to admire the tables full of his newest handbags and his first collection of shoes. (His team said we could observe as long as we didn’t distract him with conversation.)

Occasionally, Lopez sneaks a peek at some of the latest collections on his phone. Lopez says Vazifdar, his designer, secretly hated a show everyone else loved and is waiting for “someone to trash it.” “No, I loved it!” Vazifdar says, laughing. One in particular sends Lopez on a little rant about corporate ownership. “Those groups force those things down their throats,” he says, “That’s why I would never join a group. I’ll stay independent for the rest of my life because — to have these bitches tell me what I’m going to put down the runway? They’ll put that whole entire rack of all that bullshit like that,” he says, pointing to a rank of jeans and T-shirts covered in the Luar graphic logo. Lopez is no novice in the cutthroat world of fashion. He co-founded Hood by Air with Shayne Oliver in 2006 and saw that label through many of its ups and downs. Lopez is even worried about spoiling his niece, Brooke, who usually joins him for his runway bows, with too much public attention. “I think it’s programming her to believe that fame and celebrity-ism is a thing, and it’s fake,” he told a friend who stopped by at one point and asked about his family.

Lamine is sufficiently shoulder-padded and ready to walk. “Go like this in a ‘U’ twice as strong as you can,” Lopez tells him. Lamine does a loop uneasily. He’s wearing socks, and his feet are slipping in the mules. Someone has the idea to remove the socks, and Lamine redeems himself with a strong strut. “Period,” Lopez says. “You look very chic.” He says he loves the tight trousers. He’s over baggy pants. “Bring back the cigarette pants.” He looks over at me, a person wearing baggy pants. “Oops, sorry,” he says with a mischievous grin.

Lamine’s look is approved, pending alterations. But before he leaves, Lopez wants him to try on another cocoonlike piece that is still not quite working. It’s a gray velvet long trench coat attached to what looks like a nun’s habit that is erect in the back, like a shark’s fin. The part that covers the head is still too loose. “This is what I was telling them — it needs to be fitted,” Lopez says as he applies a row of clips down the center of Lamine’s head, like a mohawk. Lamine gives another turn around the room and is then free to change and go.

Another problem of the day is a typhoon in Hong Kong that is delaying the arrival of some fringe. Lopez needs it to trim the sides of a silk scarf covered with a repeating print of the Luar name. He spreads a sample of the scarf on the hardwood floor and calls for some fringe and safety pins to attach and see how it looks. Arroyave and another staffer take over, pinning as quickly as they can. “Sixty-second challenge guys; you have ten seconds,” says Lopez, counting down in his best TV-host voice. “You’re going to have to leave the trim, guys, you have to go to the runway.” He takes the scarf and wraps it around first himself and then Arroyave, trying to figure out how to style it with enough volume for the look he wants.

Meanwhile, Vazifdar is keeping track of what still needs to be altered or checked. A pair of corduroy shorts that zip off into high-cut panties need to be taken in on the waist, half an inch on each side. “No. 5 stitch,” Lopez requests. “Not a faggot stitch — have you seen that? We should just do a whole collection called faggot faggot stitch.”

Another model, Shivaruby, arrives and quickly tries on her look: a set of sheer trousers and a button-down shirt, all covered in shiny embroidered pinwheels. “Pin it up!” Lopez yells as someone tweaks a hem. As Shivaruby walks for the team, the room goes dead quiet. Someone whispers “fabulous,” but the approval goes without saying. “Do you want to see it with the mesh under or no?” Vazifdar asks Lopez, now sitting in an office chair he uses to roll around the office. “No, the skin’s good.” Shivaruby steps outside to have her picture taken for the team’s records. One look down, many more to go.